


Down

by allcanadiangirl (andchimeras)



Series: Maroon & Gold [4]
Category: Everwood
Genre: Blood, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-25
Updated: 2003-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchimeras/pseuds/allcanadiangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ephram stares for a long time, bending his knees, crossing his arms. His eyes, just so. Wide.</p><p>"Don't do me any favours," he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down

Bright puts him down backhanded. It's not allowed, he knows, he does it anyway. The knuckles of his right hand, crack, across Ephram's right cheek, follow-through. Eyes, snap, shocked. Smacked.

And when Ephram hits the wall there's something like you'll pay for that in his face, falling to the floor all around him. With him.

Standing back, Bright watches. He wonders just what the price is, tries not to hope for too much. Because nothing. Nothing's going to happen.

He watches Ephram look up, not all the way up to his face, just about halfway up, his cheekbone flushing, bruising. Blood. Down from his nose. The slump of his shoulders. Spark, glitter, flash, his eyes.

He watches Ephram reach across the air between them. He's not going to step closer, he won't, he's not even going to let this happen. He sees Ephram's hand slide up his thigh, under his jacket, under his shirt. The pressure is good, good, getting better, and the firm press of Ephram's cold fingers against his stomach, curling around the waistband of his jeans, pulling Bright closer still.

Tug, he steps forward, he has to, Ephram's pretty strong, tug as. Ephram pulls himself. Up. To his knees.

Faint jangle as Bright's belt is unbuckled, he's going to say no, he will, just as soon as. The button pops, slow descent of zipper echoed on his spine, everything focused, eyes closed. Ephram's on his knees and. His whole being intent and narrowed on Ephram's hand slipping in, grasping. Holding. Pulling.

Out.

This isn't happening.

The air is almost too much in itself, he manages to keep it, because no. Not allowed.

Then there is tongue, there is wet, and then a lot of cold as Ephram breathes across him. He hisses, clenches his fists, wants to smash something, somebody, only that would make the good part stop, and the best would never happen.

Not that it's. It's not. It's.

Soothed, warm inside, and he doesn't think at all, only flinches when Ephram grazes with his teeth, too often, squeezes with his hands. Much. Much harder than necessary.

It hurts. He wants. He's going to push him away, he will, he doesn't want.

Ephram bites around the head, little bites, sharp like pins, staples in his skin, and. It hurts and.

Something. Pushes up through him, cuts into, warm in a different and less exciting way than Ephram's mouth. Presses into his dick, he tries to pull away, but he never does—it's a wide flood, drowning, his hands stretching over nothing at his sides, moving forward and back but more forward, rolling.

Slow.

Slow. Mouth gone, hands around him, keeping him warm. Slow.

Stop.

Bright puts a hand on Ephram's head and pushes him away. There. Done.

He opens his eyes as.

Ephram knocks against the wall, closes his eyes, licks his lips—there's blood everywhere now, and come. He wipes his mouth, folds an arm carefully across his ribs, holding them in, Bright thinks there's definitely overkill in here somewhere. Nobody's complaining.

Bright turns away, the cold is real and obvious, stuffs himself in without wincing, wipes the thin pink blood from his fingers to his jeans. Says, "Are you—"

"I'm fine," he says. Raw and thick at the same time.

Bright pulls his shirt down, turns back, gestures. Vaguely. Down there, licks his lips without, without even thinking.

Ephram stares for a long time, bending his knees, crossing his arms. His eyes, just so. Wide.

"Don't do me any favours," he says.

Bitter.

Bright can taste it, his voice. This is not allowed. He's ashamed for even asking.

But then. Come on. Ephram thinks. Ephram thinks he's allowed to break the rules and. He thinks he can just do this, and Bright can't. Bright can't even ask? It's not fair. Does Ephram really think he can get away with that?

Ephram is turning, hand on the wall, trying to stand, Bright shakes his head.

No.

He can't.

Bright's stomach lurches as he grabs Ephram by the shoulders, hauls him up—

"Fuck," he says. Voice high, scared. "What—"

Holds him to the wall, holds him and he pushes, puts his hands around Bright's neck and squeezes but it's really no good at all. It's kind of beyond that. Bright puts his own hand. His hand, his fingers, tight against Ephram's throat, presses, skin and. And the hard column of his windpipe.

Red around his thumb pushing in, and white everywhere else—his eyes, around his lips, the wall behind him.

Sounds like coughing in reverse.

Ephram's hands slide to Bright's shoulders and he digs in, like begging really, and Bright goes closer. Not easing up. Not giving in. Not getting any harder.

He shifts his grip, makes it so he's got a thumb up in the vein under Ephram's ear, crushing with his whole hand. Just. Giving him what he wants without being asked. Breaking the rules.

He's got. He's got another hand. Another hand fully capable of. Something.

Making a fist.

Plowing up under Ephram's ribs. Once, three times, four.

And the fear kind of slips. Off Ephram's face. Like. Whatever. Water.

Bright opens his fist, against Ephram's ribcage, slides it down, he can feel them going past. Cotton, then skin, muscle, bone. The last one. He hooks his fingers around it, pushes. There will be. There will be four bruises and it'll be at least a week before they fade. And no one will see them but Ephram.

Bright will not. No skin. No skin. Only hands and mouths.

Ephram's eyes are closed. Probably hurts a lot. All of it.

Bright kicks Ephram's feet apart and shoves his thigh up. Doesn't care.

Doesn't. Breathes close over Ephram's cheek, red high there from before, and licks over that, bites a little. Thick line of maroon from his nose to his mouth, disappearing inside. Got to. Got to have that taste again.

He's breathing, right, hard and slow through his nose, he opens his teeth for Bright's tongue. And. There. So. Warm.

This is better, Bright thinks. This is better than him down there.

Divots on the inside of his bottom lip, bitten, and his cheek, and his tongue, and everywhere. Warm, copper and iron and. Salt, bitter. Must be. Oh. And that's warm too, good too.

A long low sound around his tongue. He breaks, breaks. Away. Watches. Ephram's face gather itself in, forehead creasing, mouth clenched shut. Fresh bright red seeping from his nose. Feels the hitch up and down his thigh. Doesn't let up. Doesn't. Won't.

Heat pools there and he can't let go.

Slow, deep. Exhale. Warm on his face.

Ephram doesn't open his eyes when it's done. Bright thinks that's a good thing.

He just kind of.

Drops him.

Snaps his hands back, not like burned but like. Sorry.

And Ephram falls down. Breathing long, practised recovery. Hand at his side, hand wiping his mouth again.

Before. Before he even. Thinks about it. Bright's halfway across the bathroom, already reaching back for the lock on the door.

Because, see. The lock turns. Because he wants. The handle is cool and hard and metal. What he wants. He wants to be down there too.

The hallway is blinding white, empty. Echoing. Very very cold.

Doesn't. Doesn't want.

Doesn't want it to be over.

 

End.


End file.
